


Son of a Wolf

by Whiskeyjack



Series: Wolves of Ranulfr [4]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen, Space Wolves, making up lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10047236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whiskeyjack/pseuds/Whiskeyjack
Summary: Ranulfr tries to find a way back to his pack.





	

Ranulfr woke to the stink of sewage flooding his nostrils, and a sharp pain in his chest. When he tried to get up, it felt as if something was pinning him down. He opened his eyes groggily, and found that there was a spike protruding through his chest. As his hands came up weakly to tug at it, a surge of pain coursed through him, as though seeing that he had been stabbed through caused his pain senses to start working again. 

The spike was rough and organically made, like a remnant of a Tyranid hive. He sniffed, and there was a weak underlay of alien scents in addition to the normal stench of hive city sewage. This was not a good time to be alone in a former Tyranid colony. If there were any stragglers, he would likely be too weak to fight them off by himself. 

Bringing both hands up, he wrapped his fists around the spike, took a deep breath that hurt him much more than he expected, and channelled all his strength into his arms to try and snap it off. He had to be careful to break it just above his chestplate, in case any broken fragments embedded themselves in his body. The risk of further injuring himself from accidentally breaking it off too deep was not worth the chance that he might be able to sit up easier. 

With a roar of pain, his arms flexed inside his armour, and the spike cracked in his hands. He twisted once more and it broke free. He threw his head back and flung it aside, breathless and sweating just from the comparatively small effort it had taken. The spike must have been sharp indeed to have pierced through his armour and carapace, and he suspected it also held some kind of toxin that prevented his body from healing itself.

He chanted a litany of protection as he tried his best to slow down his racing heartbeats. What he had to do next would be harder than snapping that spike. Bracing his elbows on the ground, he slowly lifted himself up, his feet planted and legs pushing him upward. He could feel his arms trembling with the effort, and there was a wet, sickening sound as the spike snagged in his flesh, almost refusing to be let out. Then there was a squelching  _ pop _ , and every fiber in his body sagged in relief as he collapsed to the floor, rolling over to his side.

His eyelids drifted close as he felt his organs begin their frantic rush to purge him of the xenos poison, but fought the urge to doze off, knowing that there was the potential in his state that he would never wake up again. After a few minutes, he pulled out a synthi-flesh canister and sprayed it as best as he could on his open wound, knowing that his enhanced Astartes biology would do the rest. It took a few tries to get to the hole on his back, but eventually he managed to seal it. 

After lying there for a few minutes, he struggled to his feet, hand braced on the wall. Just doing that was a huge effort, and it left him gasping for air again. He was still dizzy and was acutely aware of the thin layer of synthi-flesh that covered the hole through his body, but if he lingered here any longer, he would definitely be at the Gates of Morkai within a few hours. The wolf within him howled its anger at the thought of such an ignominious death.

First he had to find a way out of the sewers. He found his combi-melta on the ground a few paces away, and his combat knife not too far from where he fell. He tried to hail someone on his vox communicator, but all he got was crackling static. He remembered his backpack sparking when it got shot, and realized that the comm circuits must have been damaged in his fall. It looked like all he had to rely on to get out of this mess was his wits. 

Briefly he thought he might be able pull up a map to the area, then remembered that they had only gone through layouts of the above ground constructs, whether through negligence or simply because they did not have any information on the sewer network. 

He sniffed the air, trying to find a thread of fresh air he could follow that might lead him back to the surface. He had to close his eyes and concentrate on separating the different scents, a task that would usually be as easy to him as breathing, such was the extent of his injury and how it affected him. There it was - it was faint under the overwhelming stench of the sewer, but he caught the smell of grass, machinery, and old buildings. There was nothing left for it but to strike ahead. 

* * *

When Skaegr opened his eyes, the blinding brightness of the light that greeted him made him wonder if he had indeed died and stood before the Gates of Morkai. But his ears were still ringing, and the back of his head pounded, and so he doubted that one would be in this much pain after death. 

He could still smell the acrid stench of smoke in the air and the blood of dead xenos, and allowed himself a rumble of satisfaction. Forcing himself to roll over, his eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and he found his weapons on the ground nearby. He felt his armour inject him with pain suppressants, and uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the machine spirits. 

A grey Fenrisian wolf loped over and licked his face, and he grunted, pulling the beast away from his face but thankful that he was no longer alone. It growled playfully, pushing up against his hand, and allowed Skaegr to grab on to its fur to pull himself up. The wolf waited graciously while he gathered his chainsword and storm bolter, then they cast off back towards the forest. 

He tried pinging Ranulfr over the vox-net again, but was only met with static. 

* * *

The base camp was a flurry of activity by the time Geirr made it back. The rest of his pack had made it back ahead of him, some of them bloodier than the others. He headed to the medical tent, where Throrin, the Wolf Priest of their detachment, had his hands full tending to the wounded. He recognized the squad markings of the two packs who had left camp shortly before he did, and was almost surprised to see them there.

He checked in quickly with the Blood Claws, and decided not to disturb the Wolf Priest at their work, even though Geirr wanted to let him know of the injured and potentially dead brothers they had to leave behind in their hasty retreat. It was not customary for Lone Wolves to take on a command role within the company, but as they were a limited force on the planet and were the highest ranking of the troops behind their pack leader Ranulfr, they were forced to take on leadership responsibilities. It put a bitter taste in his mouth just thinking about it, and made him melancholy for his old pack, his now dead brothers.

He spotted Skaegr holding a medpack to the back of his head, growling as he did so, while a grey Fenrisian wolf sat by his side, tongue lolling out as it panted. The back of his neck was covered in blood. 

“What happened to you?” Geirr pulled up a chair, the servos in his armour whirring as he sat down. 

“Tau.” He lifted the medpack to check it, found it covered in fresh blood, and slapped it back onto his head. “Bloody xenos ambush. Ran’s gone missing in the retreat.”

“Shit. Have you tried -”

“Hailing him on the vox? First thing I bloody did, been trying it for the last hour or so.” His lip curled, baring his fangs. They were almost as long as Geirr’s own, for they had been inducted into the Blood Claws a few months apart, with Geirr being the slightly senior of the two. “His comm unit must be damaged.” 

There was a commotion outside, the pounding footfalls of Astartes punctuated by howling of the Fenrisian wolves. Geirr got up, and put a hand on Skaegr’s pauldron as the other Wolf tried to follow. 

“Probably best if you stayed here until you stopped bleeding, brother.” He said. Skaegr barked a sardonic laugh and sat back down. 

Geirr pushed the tent flap open, and almost ran headfirst into Ignisson, one of the Grey Hunters. The younger Space Marine yelped and backstepped quickly to avoid the collision. 

“What’s going on?” Geirr asked him. 

“It’s Ranulfr! He’s badly injured and needs the Wolf Priest right away!”

Geirr could smell the panic emanating from him, and leaped into action. He turned and called out to the Wolf Priest, who held out a commanding hand, indicating that he would come when ready. The Grey Hunter he had been administering a healing balm to shook his head, and it was as if a wordless acknowledgment passed between them. The Wolf Priest nodded, then took up his Crozius Arcanum and rushed past Geirr, his weathered face a mask of stoic calm, though his scent was as though a storm was brewing inside him. 

Throrin’s black armour cut an intimidating figure as he strode ahead, fur cloak flapping out behind him. His wolf skull helmet was hooked to his belt, and Geirr knew that it was meant to serve as a comforting sight for his brothers, and a method of intimidation for their enemies. He had seen the old priest in battle just once, and when he howled, the sound that came from the toothed helm was truly spine chilling, even for a  _ Vlka Fenryka _ . 

The Blood Claws and Grey Hunters had assembled in a loose circle around Ranulfr, and the air held the scent of fear - not fear of falling to an enemy, or fear of dying an ignoble death, but fear for their brother’s life. The throng parted for Throrin to come through, and a hush fell over them as the Wolf Priest knelt down beside Ranulfr. A few of them made the sign of the Aquila, hoping to ward off evil spirits.

Geirr could hear the rasping rattle as the pack leader drew breath, his eyes closed. Throrin slapped him awake, and he grunted in surprise. 

“By Russ, it's good to see your face.” Ranulfr’s voice was so soft, and it was only through his heightened senses that Geirr could hear him. 

Throrin chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “It's been a long time since I've heard that said to me boy, and I'd rather not hear it from you.”

Ranulfr coughed, so hard that he had to wheeze for breath. The Wolf Priest placed his palm on the man's head, and closed his eyes. Throrin was peculiar for a Wolf Priest in that he usually wore his armour leaving his arms bare, showing off the tattoos and runes that formed a myriad of patterns across them. In place of the traditional Space Marine shoulderpads, he had tattooed an intricate wolf’s head on his left shoulder, where the chapter icon would usually be found. He claimed that having them without armour was easier for him to intuit and heal the injured, and no one dared refute him once they saw the size of his muscles. By all accounts his healing was exceptional, so that only served to further prove his point. 

The hairs on the back of Geirr’s neck rose, and there was an aura of something he couldn't explain rising from the Wolf Priest. Undoubtedly he was using some kind of psychic powers on the pack leader. Geirr had seen all manner of uncanny and horrific things during his days as a Space Wolf, but psykers still managed to make him uncomfortable. 

Throrin removed a canister from his belt and unscrewed it, applying a pungent balm to where an angry red scar had formed after having synthi-flesh applied to it. Rolling the man over, he did the same for the scar on his back. Geirr couldn't even imagine what could have impaled an Astartes right through the armour, and he shuddered to have to think about it. He could hear Ranulfr’s breathing immediately smooth out, and it was no longer the rasping wheeze that he had just a few seconds before. 

The Wolf Priest then took out a small grey cube from one of his pouches, and placed it in Ranulfr’s mouth. The man thrashed at that, and Throrin had to hold his mouth shut like a dog until he swallowed it. The pack leader fell unconscious. Throrin stood up and indicated to two Grey Hunters to carry him to the medical tent, and they hurried to obey, lifting him as carefully as they could. He looked uncannily like a corpse as they hauled him away, and Geirr pushed the thought out of his head. 

The Lone Wolf breathed a sigh of relief, glad that the emergency was over. But now a new problem had emerged - who was in charge of the detachment while Ranulfr was out of commission? 

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm making up a lot of lore as I go along... especially with regards to Space Wolf healing and first aid, because fuck me if none of that sort of thing is ever actually written about in lore. And I don't know if they ever sign the Aquila to "ward off evil" etc. but just roll with it, it makes sense.
> 
> Also re: the Wolf Priest - bite me.


End file.
